Parking, unlimited

It was a wonderful plan, a boon to humanity. And solving the parking problem would make a fortune for Slim and me. But when the secret got out ...
I could have taken that three hundred dollars and gone to school for a year, by washing dishes two hours a night. I had worked for that money, too; shocking wheat for twelve hours a day in the August sun is no vacation. But Slim Coleman convinced me that we could run that three hundred into enough to take us both for four years.
I hadn't even had time to get a haircut—and I did want a haircut; now it was pretty shaggy.
But Slim, diplomat that he is, didn't even seem to notice my hair. I've got a real deal, he said, and his deep eyes were shining with enthusiasm. Have you got any money?
Some, I said cautiously.
It takes three hundred. Have you got that much?
I had intended to say no, but Slim has a way of fixing his deep, somber eyes on you that gives ineffable dignity even to a touch. Okay, I said hopelessly. What's the bite?
Well, you see, it's like this. We went into a drug store and ordered cokes, and Slim characteristically insisted on paying for them when he probably couldn't have bought a package of cigarettes. I let him pay, too. I had three hundred and one dollars, and I had no intention of parting with a nickel of it—except a dollar for a haircut.
I was using the brain-finder and I ran across the owner of this unused garage in the Loop. His name is Richard LaBombard and he's got a lot of parking lots through the Loop, and you know what he's doing?
I saw the waitress stare at me. I swallowed and tried to listen to Slim. No.
Slim was staring at the waitress. He loads them up with used cars every day so those who are hunting a parking place can't get in, he said absently. You know what he wants?
Well, no. I never could figure those things, but Slim could see the angles a mile away. He was always good at that.